Just about to leave work. Been here since about 5am. Couldn't sleep, so thought I might as well just come in, get the work done and get home when everyone's awake.
Luckily (unluckily - since he could have done with the sleep?) John woke up enough for me to say goodbye. I didn't want him to wake up and just find me gone, with a note on the pillow.
I like working odd hours. It's quiet here at the moment, I'm just in my biking jeans and a shirt, there are three of my team in, keeping things ticking over, and the others who are on fresh active inquiries aren't based here, they're in incident rooms elsewhere, on secondment. It's different when we've got a big enquiry going on - then whatever time you're here it's manic.
But even without that, my current workload is...immense. I'm working a joint op. I've mentioned it before. It means...well, it means a lot of things, but one of them is that I not only have more basic work to do, but I also can't have any time off. And I really could do with some.
Like John says here, very delicately, things have been a bit 'strained' (hell, you've probably noticed. It's not like we've done a good job of hiding it). He's knackered, I'm stressed, we keep accidentally rubbing each other up the wrong way, taking things badly. My usual method of coping is to shut myself away, and it's just right at a time when he wants me with him. We're all at odds. Could probably do with getting away from everything, but like I said above, it's not going to happen.
The other night - as astutely noticed by Sherlock - I didn't come straight home from work. I rode around for a bit, and then just went and sat by the river, down by the Thames Barrier. It was lashing down with rain, but it was a bit of time on my own, which I really needed. So I stayed there until I was almost too cold to move, then revved up and headed back. It's funny, the way the city consumes you with light and noise and people and traffic as soon as you head back in.
And now Sherlock is going on and on about me moving in. I have no idea what to say in the face of his 5-yr-old-logic. Except it isn't that simple. Of course he doesn't see why. All he sees is the potential for my rent money to buy him ice cream.
And it's raining, so I'll go back and see if there's any sanity left in the place with two boys, two dogs and John all getting cabin fever. Maybe we can cook something. I need a sous chef at the moment, until my hand stops feeling like it'll pull apart at the (very neatly stitched) seams.
Oh, and as Sherlock is also obsessed with Bearskin hats and army stuff, after yesterday, here (finally) is a picture of John in his uniform that Harry sent me as some form of revenge after all the ones he's put up of me. Sherlock asked if the uniform was red. He was disappointed when it wasn't. I'm not disappointed. He got shot more than enough in camouflage.